


Flesh, Forged

by fyeahblackturtlenecks



Series: In the Pits of Angband [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, M/M, Other, protective worried sauron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyeahblackturtlenecks/pseuds/fyeahblackturtlenecks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yet with his last and desperate stroke Fingolfin hewed the foot with Ringil, and the blood gashed forth black and smoking and filled the pits of Grond."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flesh, Forged

**Author's Note:**

> ...I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm really not...

He watches from the top of the leftmost tower of Thangorodrim. He is surrounded by generals, maps, and models of war. Elven blood dries on his armor from earlier battle. He knows that he needs it cleaned, else the plate will rust, and that strategy is imperative. He knows that they cannot take Beleriand with senseless chaos, and so do the generals, but talk of strategy has halted on their tongues just as the armies of both sides have halted on the field.

They all watch as the doors of Angband open and Melkor comes forth. His armor is black plate of Sauron's own forging, and it glints as if with the Dark Lord's own malice in the sunlight. The Noldo who calls himself a King is miniscule in comparison, his sword a toothpick compared to Melkor's great hammer. Still, worry stabs at the lieutenant's core. He is not faithless, but great power or no, Sauron knows that Melkor will feel the pain of wounds incurred here for eternity.

The field holds its breath as they do battle.

Sauron is the first down the stairs at Melkor's victory.

The horde guarding the guates parts to admit its lord, and Sauron sees that the dark Vala limps, leaning against the hammer for support. Melkor can bleed--though he may try to forget it at times-and he bleeds now. His left leg stops short at the ankle, and he is pale, but he is smiling as Sauron ducks under his arm to support his weight. Other wounds bleed also, but none as much as this. “I would have the Noldo’s head,” he says, voice tight, “But Manwë wanted it for himself.” Melkor looked up at the birds’ retreating forms, glaring.

“Forgive me if that is not what currently dominates my attention,” Sauron replies. He wraps an arm around Melkor’s waist in an attempt to lighten the weight on his streaming ankle.  The maia knows that Melkor cannot bleed out, but the sheer volume of the black liquid concerns him.

The great double doors shut behind them, and the faint sound of post-battle chaos seeps through the stone walls as Sauron guides Melkor to his throne. It stands, ceremonial and rarely used unless a prisoner is brought to Angband, at the front of the hall, and Sauron wonders in the back of his mind as to why the hall had to be so _long_. At the moment, it was less processional and more covered in its overlord’s blood.

“Get me bandages,” snaps Sauron at a nearby Orc. "And ensure that they are clean!" He is only vaguely aware of the Orc’s departure as he deposits Melkor into the throne, kneeling to begin unstrapping boots and armor to get to the wound itself.

Melkor is pale through his helmet, more so than he was outside, and pain creases the space between his eyes. He clamps his hands on the throne’s armrests, fingers going white at the force he applies. It is something that even Sauron is rarely permitted to witness, and something that the armies never have.

Sauron thinks it is less about morale than it is pride.

Next to him, a pile of cloth strips falls to the floor. The Orc steps back to join his comrades, and Sauron looks over his shoulder at the room. “Leave us, and speak to none of what you saw here,” he orders, and the Orcs scurry towards the exits.

Melkor relaxes, if only slightly, at their exit. “It will not kill me,” he says, and it comes through gritted teeth.

“Nothing will, but the fact remains that you are bleeding,” Sauron replies. He positions a hand over Melkor's ankle, skin heating until flame licked at his fingers. "...it needs cauterizing," he explains, "I do not wish to cause you pain."

“So kind for one so destructive,” says Melkor. “But I cannot bleed forever.”

Sauron clamps his fingers around the wound, flesh hissing in his grasp. He feels it as Melkor goes still. The Vala will feel this always, just as he will the loss of limb. Sauron pushes back the knowledge that this time, he is the source of the pain. Flesh blisters under his touch, but the flow of blood subsides. Sauron remembers the healers of Valinor, the skill that he has so little of. "That will have to do for now, unless you do not object to an eleven healer. One of the thralls--"

"Absolutely not," Melkor rises too quickly, stumbling back as the roughly bandaged wound makes contact with the ground. Braced against the armrests of his throne, his eyes scan the room almost frantically.

"They would not dare return," Sauron reassures, standing and taking Melkor by the arm to better support him. "And not even Draugluin will hear of this."

"They will see, if we leave this room," says Melkor. "And word will spread through the hordes until--"

"We cannot remain here forever, and I can ensure their silence."

Slowly, Melkor pushes himself away from the throne, weight sinking against Sauron's waiting form. "This compromises me," he mutters as they make their slow descent into Angband's lowest chambers, where none of the horde is permitted entrance unless their commanders will it.

"Not for long," answers the lieutenant, glaring away a stray Orc in one of the stairwells. "Limbs do not have to be of flesh."

"That can be done?"

"With time and materials, yes. Canes, as well, specialized for battle. I can take the measurements as soon as you like."

Melkor's face brightens in his pallor at that, if only slightly.

Sauron guides him into their shared bedchamber, easing him onto the bed and beginning to remove his armor. The Noldo's blood has dried in splatters across the iron, in part mixed with Melkor’s own, and Sauron will have to forge anew what the elf had managed to hew off. Another charge to hold against the Elves. "You are not one to be incapacitated by something so insignificant as an elven blade," he said. A smile tugs at his lips as Melkor's arms encircle his waist.

"We won, you know," says Melkor, pulling Sauron down to sit next to him.

"I do, and I also know that armor rusts if not properly cleaned after wear," says the Maia, reaching up to take off Melkor's helmet and run a hand through the other's hair. His own headpiece soon follows. “Come here,” he says, and Melkor does, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Sauron’s exposed forehead. “You will need a crutch, for the time being,” he says as he wraps his arms around the other’s form. “Only until the prosthetic is fit for use.”  
“And afterwards, we will deal with the remainder of that elven pest’s kin,” Melkor adds.

“Something to look forward to, certainly.” 


End file.
